


Stars like her eyes

by asterCrash



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Abandonment Issues, F/M, Helmsman Kink, spousal abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-05-02 16:53:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5256128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asterCrash/pseuds/asterCrash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The new girl’s not more than ten sweeps old when you watch her claim her inheritance on the end of a 2x3dent. You’d clap, but, well, you know.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Feferi Peixes ascends the throne of the Alternian empire and learns to deal with the pressures of ruling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stars like her eyes

CC: Sollux, w)(at are you saying?  
TA: ii  
TA: ii don’t know  
TA: ii gue22 ii’m ju2t not feeliing iit any more  
TA: maybe iit would be better iif we 2aw other people

 

* * *

 

She’s not more than ten sweeps old when you watch her claim her inheritance on the end of a 2x3dent. You’d clap, but, well, you know. The old empress falls to the ground and bleeds that sick tyrian all over your nice clean floor. Her Imperial Complacency ascends the throne covered in her ancestor’s blood, like any good heiress who knows how to dodge a culling fork. You’re there for her ascendancy, as much as you can be anywhere anymore, and you’re there for her victory party as she brings all her weird little wiggler friends to show off the nice digs. A few of them almost look familiar, but it’s been so long and you’ve seen so many trolls, they all start to blur together in a mess of greys and rainbows.

It’s a full sweep before you talk to her, she didn’t realise you could, you don’t blame her. She didn’t even know where you were until you instructed her on how to make the glass behind her throne clear so that your two way mirror of a prison can became the zoo cage her predecessor meant it to be. The wiggler shrieks the first time she sees you, you don’t blame her for that either. After the stimulating round of conversation _How long have you been there? What did she_ do _to you? Does it hurt?_ she finally asks the important question.

By this time she’s figured out how to get in the cage with you, just like her ancestor liked to do, and is feeling across your chest where you know the Condesce had your sign burned into your skin after your first two hundred sweeps together. Her eyes are wide from taking you in, in all your bound glory with the helmscolumn wrapped around you. You are a mustardblood trapped in a mess of tyrian bulges. The irony has never escaped you, but it’s been centuries since you last laughed. You have no idea whether you still can.

“What’s your name?” She asks, lips trembling as she eyes your scarred sign once more.

“I don’t remember,” you answer truthfully.

She calls you Sollux the first time she takes you. You know that was never your name.

 

* * *

 

It’s two sweeps after her ascendence before you ask if she plans on keeping you up here. Maybe it didn’t occur to her that you were still a troll under all the kinky decorations, maybe that little jump as she turns around on the throne means she’s feeling guilty, you can’t tell. She steps into your cell to answer the first time, tells you about all her plans, how she needs your help to fly the ship. She says she promises she’ll have her best people remove you as soon as you’re done with this next cluster. You don’t believe her but it’s nice to see she believes herself.

It’s another sweep before you ask a second time. She doesn’t get in but she presses her hand up against the glass to let you know that she just needs a little more time, a few more planets united under her banner before she can let you go. She talks about how much she needs you, how much she wants you to stay with her. She doesn’t open the glass on your cage except to fuck you.

The next sweep when you ask, she turns the glass opaque.

The sweep after that she figures out how to mute your cage.

 

* * *

 

It’s been a few sweeps since she visited you for anything other than pleasure. Some days she comes in after a fight, still covered in rainbow gore and sates herself on you without a word. You don’t tell her she’s starting to look a lot like Meenah. You’re not sure she’d appreciate the comparison. “Does it hurt?” She asks, sitting on the floor with her back to the wall. With the door closed and the glass opaque you can both see the advisors awkwardly idling about inside her throne room.

“Does what hurt?” You respond. You don’t suggest. _Being ignored? No. The fucking? Only when you’ve been drinking. The lies? The obviously false hope, dangled like a carrot for some idiotic cartbeast? Fucking yes._

“That thing. Being trapped in there.”

You look into her eyes and you try to decide whether she wants honesty. “Constantly,” you answer. “It’s the worst pain a troll’s pan can contain because that’s what makes the ship go fastest. I was used to it before you were a rumble in the mother grub’s digestion sac.”

She leaves you after then. She doesn’t come to see you for a while, but you watch her behind your glass. You watch her see petitioners and grant mercy where she can. She’s benevolent like that. You watch her foil assassins and younger tyrians with a 2x3dent that hasn’t been left blunt since the day it skewered her predecessor. You watch her try to figure out which button will prevent you from being able to see out from your cage. You’d tell her, but she’s had you on mute for sweeps.

 

* * *

 

She goes a few sweeps without seeing you at one point. You think she tries to hide it but it’s obvious she’s been pailing someone else. You don’t consider it much of a charity that she’s eager to keep it from you. The Condesce would take her conquests on the throne, at least then you got a show out of it. The next time she comes to you she’s obviously been drinking. She cuts you with the smallest of her knives and smears you with the mustard of your blood. She takes you rough and uses your bulge like a toy, without your arms you can’t hold her, can’t calm her down, can’t stop her as she takes her anger out on you. You didn’t even know you could still bruise. Your ears are sensitive from lack of use and when she hurls abuse at you they sting. It drags on for hours and eventually the beating and the yelling and the fucking stop seeming like distinct acts and start feeling like the same thing.

When it’s over she collapses down on the floor. She doesn’t cry and she doesn’t speak, but her hands shake as she lifts the bottle up for another swig of that awful soda. You’re not seeing out of one eye and her knuckles aren’t even bruised, but she’s got your gold all over her, in more ways than one. She talks to you, or maybe talks to a person who’s not there, about how shitty things have been since she came to power. She talks about all the ideas she had going in, how things were going to be _different_ , how she was going to change the empire for the better. Eventually the tears come, and she talks about the endless bickering of her admirals, the constant coups on distant worlds, how keeping the peace has become a monster that won’t stay quiet unless she feeds it corpses and how she misses her mom.

She’s cried a little piece of her bloodpusher out by the time she’s finished, near as you can tell, and for all the confessions she seems just a little bit harder, just a little bit more like she’d take this deal all over again, just a little bit more like Meenah. She wipes her face clean on her hands, fast and dirty like the wiggler she still is, even if she’s already outliving hatchmates from the lower end of the hemospectrum. Standing up, trying to be regal, she comes to stand before you. She’s covered in your blood and your material and her eyes are bloodshot with her tyrian, stark against the jet black of her skin. She asks you for the first time if you want her to uninstall you, to let you walk out of here.

You tell her no.

She kisses you.

You don’t say it’s because she’d cull you for asking.

 

* * *

 

The new girl’s not more than ten sweeps old when you watch her claim her inheritance on the end of a 2x3dent. You’d clap, but, well.

You know.


End file.
